Getting Ready for Goodbye

Is it time to take him to the vet?
Words I've been thinking
all morning long,
yet I am startled
to see them in print.
I don't know. Maybe,
I text back,
unable to bring myself to say
Yes.

I look at my Sam,
my baby,
nails clicking on the tile of the kitchen floor,
walking in circles,
bumping into chairs, 
cabinets,
my legs.
I see the old dog
in front of me,
but my mind flashes
images of the energetic puppy
racing across the yard
when I call his name,
zooming up stairs 
he no longer can find,
dancing excitedly 
in front of his boy's bedroom door.

He needs a visit to the groomer, I think,
but we're past that now. 
I grab his brush and do the best I can,
moving it gently across
his curly gray fur
as hot, sloppy tears 
slide down my face
and splash off my chin.
That's my boy,
That's my good Sammy,
I repeat,
trying to keep the sorrow out of my voice,
trying to make it feel like old times.

Somber conversations 
with my husband and son
lead to unspoken decisions.
But still we stall.
Putting off the inevitable 
or hoping for a miracle?
It's hard to say 
and makes little difference.
No miracle arrives
and the inevitable is a force
to be reckoned with.

I watch my son, 
now a young man,
kneel in front of his dog,
but see the boy who first loved him.
When he straightens 
and turns to face me,
I hold out my arms.
For once, 
he does not resist,
but lets me hold him
and holds on to me.
It's okay to be sad,
I whisper.
That is love,
and love is always good.